In between staining paper for new bindings & creating intricate photographic art, I have been writing in my journal. I bought a new one. This I'll elaborate on later, but some words are on the page...
Annie Dillard wrote in an excerpt of 'The Deer at Providencia' that she keeps by her bedside mirror, a news clipping photograph of a badly burned man. She reads the article each morning while combing her hair. You could not see the expression on his face as the bandages shaded his eyes. It was the second time he had been burned; the first 13 years prior by flaming gasoline. This time it was gunpowder.
"Why does God hate me?"
She looked at this blackened bandaged face each morning next to her own sleep-softened face.
A reminder, perhaps, of how one is fortunate - beautiful enough?
I think of my own face. I think of sitting at a local cafe yesterday afternoon as the wild choppy sea chopped away before me. Chopped and writhed over seaweeds and slick rocks. Chopping, heaving & sighing, retreating and retracting to return again as the
giant camembert in the sky pulled its ebb and flow. Was the cheese whole or had someone taken a bite of it?
From my seat on the ferry to the city the following day, I could see the olde museum in all its misty glory, resting in the built environment like a cradled laid down egg; boiled, toppled over on its side, but cupped by a gentle hand. Through the cranes I watched it, through the mist and mottled day, the lurking winter and melting autumn. I watched and remembered, or thought and pondered. It's an ugly city. Nothing doing, no splendor or thrill to greet the arriving traveller. Behind all the ugliness was a rainbow, fading out to the left - then it was gone.
The buildings looked like prison cells or state housing in clusters, empty or waiting for lonely people. People who live side by side but don't know each others names.
I felt like a stone skimming the water's surface,
A stone with a heartbeat,